


Under the Table

by guybriefly



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kinda Weird, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Time bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: Yeah, I know.Anyway, during a meeting, things are getting slow, so ever the prankster, Tropy decides to play a game with his favourite little defense physicist. Hopefully they'll take it outside before someone notices...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkolleKid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkolleKid/gifts).



> You asked for it (you know who you are, skollekid), you got it. To everyone who didn't ask for this, I'm _sorry_ , I promise I'll make something nice later.  
> Anyway, this is NSFW, don't read it under 18 or you don't wanna read porn of Crash Bandicoot villains. This story is, like, about as serious as you want it to be, I never was too good at writing smut but I sure had fun!  
> Anyway, enjoy.

Bored at a meeting. The amber light of the chandelier and torches bathes the stony room in an eerie, primitive glow. Every now and then, N Gin looks around and is surprised not to see carvings or bloody cave paintings on the walls. He’s sitting next to Cortex, who’s sitting opposite Brio who’s sitting next to Tropy, who’s sitting next to some tall man with glasses, the head assistant he hears, who’s sitting next to some woman…

The table is fairly short, though. Or at least it must seem short to Tropy. The man’s legs are so long, Gin keeps feeling their feet accidentally brush, and Tropy silently apologises with a move of the hand, pulling his legs back in. He must be awfully cramped. Gin can imagine him driving a car, all hunched up like a spider, knees almost touching the wheel…

‘N Gin, do you have something to share?’

Cortex heard him snickering. Everyone’s gaze turns to him and he burns a deep red, spurting smoke and pathetically covering up with a cough and a nervous chuckle, gazing pleadingly at Cortex, who recoils in revulsion at his cringing look and turns away.

Looking over the table, Gin can see Tropy smiling. Seconds later he feels a foot brush his. Turning pink, he sees Tropy’s smirk grow, eyes squinting like a smiling cat. He doesn’t give the apologetic little hand gesture. Gin retaliates with a gentle, playful little kick, but he has far less leg room, far less range, and has to stifle a giggle when Tropy ever-so-gently returns with a _push._ It’s adorably childish. Children playing footsie under the table while the teacher droned on and on.

They have to stop when Tropy gets a little too animated and overshoots, kicking Cortex square in the shin. Of course he explodes, and Tropy coolly says he was just stretching, in that way he does, Gin muses, where he explains himself but doesn’t apologise. It gives him a rush, the thought of not apologising to Cortex. Cortex glares at him, then eases himself back into his seat, brushing his hair back with a hand, and he continues.

Gin has to admit to himself that he’s a little sorry the game had to end. The idea of playing a silly game – of _flirting! –_ under the table, during a meeting, _in Cortex’s presence,_ is so enticing to him, so exhilarating, but now it’s over. Tropy still has a look on his face, though. A catlike smirk, and his hand slowly strokes his beard (beards…?), and he shows his teeth to Gin in a brief grin, a flash of pearly white. There’s something incredibly alluring about those sharp, animal-like fangs, like a vampire, N Gin can imagine Tropy swooping into his room at night, dressed all in black, ready to drink his fill…

He feels a gentle pressure on his thigh. Heat floods his face and he coughs gently into his hand. Cortex stumbles across his words but carries on, none the wiser. The pressure pulses, massaging gently, before ever so subtly creeping higher. Tropy has to visibly droop in his seat a little to reach, but the toe of his shoe brushes the crook of Gin’s inner thigh, a _particularly_ sensitive spot, and the smaller man turns scarlet and _yelps._

All eyes turn to him and at the last split-second he turns it into a strange but passable sneeze. Everyone seems to buy it, even Cortex, who groans, rolling his eyes, drumming his fingers.

‘Dr _Gin,’_ he says caustically, ‘If your disgusting bodily functions are getting too much for you, you’re perfectly free to leave.’

He wrings his hands with a nervous titter and the squeaking sound of rubbing gloves. ‘N-no, Dr Cortex, I promise, I’m fine. I just have a- a-’ He hunts for an excuse ‘Cyborg… cold…’

‘Cyborg cold. Of course. The old robo-flu, how could I forget.’ Cortex’s voice drips with apprehension and doubt. ‘Well, sort it out when you get back to your quarters, and try to hold it together for now.’

He will.

Cortex continues droning about plans and budgets and expectations but it’s terribly hard to pay attention when the touch of Tropy’s foot shifts, creeps, and Gin’s head pounds with pressure as beads of sweat form on his forehead and his face turns scarlet; he tries to avoid looking up but he catches a glimpse of Tropy’s smug smirk, a knowing look, devilish, as if he’s sizing him up, eating him with his eyes.

His mind blanks completely when Tropy just hits the _spot._ Perfect, blissful, sudden, his body jolts, a shudder runs through him. He recovers enough to consciously stop himself from drooling but not enough to hold back the sound he makes. The sound makes even Tropy jump a little – a low, jagged, mechanical drone, like a computer freezing up, then a hiccupping beep. It only lasts a second but it shocks everyone and cuts Cortex off mid-sentence. He seems actually concerned now.

‘Are you sure you’re alright, N Gin?’ He places a hand gingerly on his assistant’s shoulder, ‘You’re- not catching, are you?’

Giggling anxiously, Gin shakes his head. ‘I’m fine, master, I-’ He’s cut off by another short computerised yelp as Tropy, foot still flat against the bullseye, presses down just enough to make him sweat and squirm in his seat. ‘I- I _promise.’_

‘I just don’t want you interrupting me. It’s very distracting.’

_Oh, you have no idea._

‘I’ll-’ He’s cut off by another computer-squeal, his voice glitching as another shudder goes through his body, the friction sublime through his clothes, he could _punch_ Tropy for this but every shift of his shoe sends a ripple through him, makes his thoughts melt. ‘-I’ll control myself.’

Tropy pipes up from across the table. The smirk is audible on his lips. Gin wonders if Cortex can hear it too. ‘Yes, N Gin, you might want to _try_ and stay quiet.’

Shithead.

Grumbling quietly, Cortex turns back to his papers, shuffles them, and pushes one into the middle of the table. Something about a plan, castle fortifications, Gin can’t hear any of it, he feels like his head is stuck inside a cloud of thick, warm cotton wool, fuzzy and humid, everything outside is muffled. He squirms in his seat, only a little, enough to make him blush at the thought that others might notice. Obscene. So obscene.

A spring inside him is coiling tighter and tighter, he can feel it tightening in the pit of his stomach, the slow, discreet _rub_ of the smooth sole of the other man’s shoe between his thighs causing his breaths to become a little difficult, a pale smoke curling from the rocket in wisps. He looks up briefly, steals a glance at Tropy when he thinks he’ll be able to take it, and he was _wrong,_ he can’t take it, because Tropy flicks out his tongue and drags it slowly over his cool, blue lips…

‘N Gin?’

He’s snapped from his helpless trance by the click of Cortex’s fingers.

‘Yes-! Cortex, sorry, master, I was- h-hah- distracted-’

 _‘Sooo_ distracted,’ adds Tropy in a low, barely audible murmur. Cortex doesn’t seem to pick up on it but it makes Gin’s ears burn.

‘Well, if your cold is distracting _you_ as much as it’s distracting the _rest_ of us, you can leave. You’re flushed all red.’ Grimacing, he places the back of his hand to Gin’s forehead and snatches it away. The metal is _hot._ ‘You’re running a fever. You’re sure you’re not contagious, right?’

 _Yes, a fever._ ‘N- no, sir, it’s not catching.’

‘Eugh. Explain the function of the system you designed and you can go.’ He indicates with one hand the blueprints laid out on the table and gingerly hands Gin a pointer with which to gesture. Gin gulps.

‘I- well- this part-’ He singles out a component of the blueprint. ‘Is a DNA detection system that- that-!’ His speech is cut off by a garbled ball of digital beeps and squeaks as his demon continues to torment him under the table. A few people cover their ears briefly and he anxiously laughs it off. ‘Detects when- certain DNA patterns are within proximity- ah- and emits a field, neutralising the- the- uh…’

His mind blanks and he only lets out a choked chirp as Tropy _pushes,_ ever-so-sweetly, and he hopes silently that he won’t ruin his good labcoat…

‘Neutralising the…?’ an assistant prompts. Gin lets out a whining little laugh.

‘I was- I thought I was about to sneeze, sorry. It recognises the DNA- for instance, ba-aaAAH-ndicoot DNA-’ The pitch of his voice warbles, fluctuating violently with the glitch. Tropy smirks. He _loves_ watching him try to hold himself together like this. ‘And emits a signal neutralising the effects of the Evolvo-Ray-’

He’s cut off by a shuddering drone, like a drill going through concrete or a computer having a _seriously_ rough time. Everyone seems to withdraw from the table slightly as he doubles, covering his mouth with his hand, trying to be discreet as Tropy finds a _particularly_ fun spot to tease and nudges it playfully with the toe of his boot.

Brio cuts across. ‘Which would- ehe- cause the p-pesky b-ba-bandicoots to revert back to their d-d-dumb, animalistic n-natures. I would kn-know.’

He casts Cortex a piercing glare and the palpable tension is almost enough to draw attention away from the fevered computerised chirrups escaping N Gin’s mouth. Cortex tugs on his collar, grimacing. ‘Yes. And since then they’d be incapable of coming within radius of the device without turning into dumb, non-heroically-inclined animals, I’d be able to work in peace without interference-!’

There’s a growl from the other end of the table. Uka Uka isn’t _sitting,_ but the lanky assistant he’s attached to is, and he’s drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. ‘It’d never work. My brother-’

Gin manages to pull himself together just enough to say, ‘It also has a flamethrower attachment.’

Uka goes quiet.

‘Well, N Gin, as much as I _loathe_ to say it, you might’ve just come up with something useful. When will you be coming up with a prototype?’

‘Oh- I- um- I was thinking later this m- _!’_ His voice escalates into a digital squeal as, under the table, Tropy’s sole grinds against his hard-on, rubs him up just-right, causes his optic devices to go offline just for a second, colours flashing bright in his right eye. His nostrils fill with the scent of steam and lavender and sugar. He clasps a hand over his mouth to cut off the embarrassing noise, and he doubles over again, hiding his bright face, hair clinging to his forehead.

Seeing Gin cover his mouth and lurch in such a way is the last straw. Cortex slams a hand on the table and snatches away the pointer. ‘Please, N Gin, be sick on your own time! You’re dismissed, go on, before you throw up on someone!’

Cortex shudders in revulsion, and N Gin shakily peels himself from his seat. He strategically uses a folder of blueprints to cover the evidence of his _embarrassing_ little under-table game. It’d be too _humiliating_ to come in front of everyone, even if they didn’t know; a thrill goes through him at the thought but he knows he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He hurries himself out of the room, red-faced, and soon he’s in the corridor, the cool hallway, a cold draught caressing his flushed cheeks.

In the echoing corridor, all alone, he can’t help but giggle. It’s such a _rush._ None of them _knew._ It was his and Nefarious’s game alone, so _risqué,_ so _naughty,_ and nobody’s the wiser- everyone just thought he was coming down with something, when he was just-!

He’s snapped from his euphoric thrill by the sound of the door to the conference room opening and closing, then the muted click of shoes on the castle carpets, getting closer. He starts moving, making it look like he’s heading somewhere, but he hears a deep chuckle and for a second he goes boneless, his knees buckle a little, the sound goes through him like a vibration.

‘A cyborg cold, hm? Oh, I _do_ hope you’re not feeling _too_ peaky.’

‘I could _kill_ you right now.’ He turns and Nefarious still has that smarmy smile, tight and smug, hooded eyes aglow with mischief. ‘You’re just a _devil.’_

Tropy looks left and right, checking to see if anyone’s watching, then he takes Gin’s hand and hurries him along.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere private.’ Excitement buzzes in his voice.

‘Your room?’

‘No time.’ Tropy’s breathless. He pulls him unceremoniously into a broom closet. A stack of buckets falls over. Gin feels young and rambunctious, nervous and electric, an illicit courtship in the most unlikely and undignified of places. ‘God, I _love_ teasing you. You’re too _cute…’_

Giggling, Gin feels the same tingling heat bubble up in his belly, wriggling when he feels Tropy’s cold nose nuzzle into his neck. As he reaches around, Tropy has to unbutton the bottom of Gin’s labcoat for unobstructed access, his hand snakes down the front of his pants…

Gin _shrieks._ Tropy has to cover his mouth with his hand, muffling the squeal.

‘Why did you _scream?!’_ he hisses into his shoulder.

‘So- _rry,_ but your hands-!’ He rolls his hips, grunting. ‘They’re fucking _cold!’_

‘Let me warm them up then.’ Slow, short strokes; he feels Gin shudder against him. ‘You’re going to get us caught…’

‘I think if I’ve learned anything from-!’ He’s interrupted by a stuttering mechanical sound, a fax machine, struggling. ‘-From that little, eh, _stunt_ you pulled, it’s that you’re not the type of guy who _cares_ about getting caught.’

Tropy chuckles low, and growls in his ear, ‘Good boy.’

Oh, no! _Somebody’s_ said the magic words, because Gin _melts_ on the spot, bracing himself against the wall with his arms, bones the consistency of warm jelly. If he weren’t bound by the rules inherent to owning a solid physical body he’d literally collapse into a warm, formless puddle of ecstatic glee, as if he were a ball of putty held in antigravity by a pair of magnets that were suddenly turned off.

But he’s not turned off. Quite the opposite. It’s evident in the noise he makes when Tropy’s pointed fangs scrape his tender neck, the squeal that Tropy has to muffle with his hand, the deep shudder that shakes him as he breathes, hot and hard, eyes fluttering shut, colours blooming like an aerial field of flowers in slow motion behind his eyelids.

God, he needs this so _badly._ Not only because Tropy is a proficient and professional cocktease, but also because of work, because of Cortex, because of the _stress_ and the strain and the long days and working nights, there’s a knot of tension between his shoulderblades and a tight pain in his back that’s coming undone as he leans into his partner, as he lets his thoughts drip away and think only about the now-slightly warmer hand tenderly stroking him towards blissful oblivion.

You could melt marshmallows on the metal side of his face. He’s thermoregulating through the missile’s head, the closet is muggy and humid with the steam and he’s almost worried it’ll start pouring out from under the door and people will notice, but it’s not enough to keep him completely cool. Tropy’s hands are so delicate, so gentle. He could do heart surgery. He doesn’t _want_ to do heart surgery, or at least he doesn’t want to do heart surgery _right,_ and would probably do some _serious_ malpractice if someone put him in a room with a drugged-up patient, an open heart and a tray of pointy bits, but his fingers are nimble and gentle and so _soft,_ featherlight, like the touch of a ghost…

‘I’m-’ A garbled array of beeps, chirps and buzzes tumbles from his ajar mouth- ‘-Going to-!’

‘Sh, sh, sh.’ Tropy wraps an arm around him, holds him close. ‘Not yet, not yet, it’s not time yet.’

‘Not yet-?! Why n-!’ The discordant, jumbled bleeping of a computer in a sci-fi movie having a hard time, someone leaning on an electronic keyboard, even Gin’s voice when he _can_ speak has a subtle fluctuation, a glitch, and it’s getting worse the more he loses himself. ‘Why n- not yet?’

‘I like hearing your _noises.’_ There’s a childishness to his voice. It’s _amusing_ him.

‘What about g-’ He’s cut off by a beeping sound like a fast-talking foul-mouthed cartoon character being censored; his speech jams in an electronic stammer. ‘G- getting c- c- c- caught?’

‘When I left,’ Tropy murmurs, low, hoarse, ‘I made sure to throw a quick mention of Doctor Cortex’s work into the conversation, and before I walked out I could hear Doctor Brio leap upon the opportunity to start an argument about the Evolvo-Ray and Cortex Vortex again. Sure, everybody else at the table may want to see my head on a platter now, but that meeting won’t be breaking up for some time.’

Gin tries to laugh, because that argument is _always_ funny when you’re not there, having to listen to the two bicker, but it’s interrupted by a high-pitched, gasping moan, and the sound of electronica music playing faster and backwards, dial-up internet connecting, an old computer crashing. Tropy can tell he’s close, his hand works faster, slightly, he peppers Gin with kisses, over the shell of his ear and the side of his jaw and he unbuttons his coat more, slips it down on one side, so he can leave a splash of kisses over his shoulder.

‘A- ah-’ He’s _really_ struggling to keep it together now. It’s very audible. His knees tremble. His hands grasp and tighten, trying to hold on to anything for purchase. ‘G- getting- c- hah- close-!’

‘Mmm, what’s the rush?’ Tropy hums, leisurely. ‘We have all the time in the world.’

‘Not when y- you’re- doing _that-!’_

A rumbling sound vibrates through Tropy’s body, a purr, a laugh, a growl, guttural, like an omen, like a sign, like seeing a murder of ravens overhead, like a premonition before you board a plane. He sinks his teeth into Gin’s shoulder when Gin tosses his head to the side, hair in disarray, although it’s never _really_ in array to begin with. Feels like he’s trying to draw blood, but he’d _never._ He’s just trying to draw out the act, trying to draw out more sounds. They’re _precious,_ they’re _darling,_ they’re _sweet._

‘You want to come so _badly.’_ He says. The lilting, sweet cadence to his voice, almost baby-talk, makes it sound almost like a question. _Go on, beg me. I am the master of time and I am the master of you; you’re not getting off without making a spectacle of yourself. Because I said so. Because it’d amuse me._

The thought almost makes Gin come apart on the spot.

All that he can do is succumb in a jumble of moans and yelps and beeps, bleeps, blips, chirps, chirrups, drones, fax machines, jamming printers, crashing computers, glitching audio, a CD skipping, the sound of dial-up, the sound of _sex,_ heavy breathing, almost whistling, whining, the sizzle of sweat evaporating, a moan as Tropy’s thumb brushes his tip, a series of stuttering beeps. His legs buckle inwards. His head falls forwards. He’s _scarlet._ He’s _ecstatic._

‘P-please,’ he whines, breathless. ‘Soon. _Please.’_

 _‘Yes,’_ hisses Tropy, drinking it in. Gin’s usual sneering tone has dissolved into something that you could call _pitiful_ but Tropy calls _sweet,_ quite cute, immensely satisfying. He growls gently, buries his face in Gin’s shoulder, peppers a few more kisses, licks, bites, he’s fixated. ‘So good, darling, that’s _just_ what I like to hear. Such a delicious little display…’

He then tries to say ‘come for me, darling’, in his gorgeous dulcet tone, but Gin hears the word ‘come’ and just sort of blanks, and what do you know, he does, hard, so hard that for a moment he completely forgets where he is, his vision erupts with light and colour like the visual representation of a chorus singing hallelujah to the heavens and then it all goes black and fuzzy and he can’t hear a thing, as if this blanket of warmth has muffled all sound.

It’s a good thing, really, because Tropy is almost fucking deafened by the noise he makes. For a good second he’s absolutely sure that there’s no way those in the conference room _didn’t_ hear it, but then he breathes a sigh of relief when he considers how thick the doors and walls are, and how obnoxious the argument he started a diversion probably is by now.

It still startles him that N Gin is capable of making such a noise, because he’s so _small,_ and so _unassuming,_ even if he can be an absolute princess. But it seems that somewhere in his mental checklist of ‘Things to Do While Getting A Quick Handjob In The Broom Closet’, between ‘Cum, spurting into your partner’s hands’ and ‘Black out for a second from just how _great_ it was’, there was a point that reads ‘Make a sound like an entire warehouse of computers going horribly, horribly wrong, all at once’. At least Tropy knows he enjoyed it. It’s like a loud, involuntary thank you, a deafening praise, a compliments-to-the-chef that almost blew out his eardrums.

Gin collects himself, sighing and grateful, head still swimming. ‘Those hands of yours,’ he begins, but he’s too weak to finish the sentence, so he just whistles his appreciation, smiling and relaxing limply in Tropy’s arms as he pulls his labcoat back straight, covering the love bites. He’s not sure if it’d be horrifying or exhilarating if one or two were high enough not to be covered, so everyone would see…

‘Remind me to bring earplugs next time,’ Tropy quips, running his fingers through N Gin’s hair, managing to groom it into some semblance of tidiness. ‘I just _love_ your little sounds…!’

‘Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.’ Gin knows he’s only joking, and the love makes him feel a little better about the _oddities_ of his speech module. He tucks himself back into his pants, buttons up, straightens out. ‘I’ll say, though, I think that cyborg cold has overcome me. I must go back to my room…’

His wheedling, smirking voice makes Tropy snicker. ‘Oh, of course, how could I forget, you’re _sick._ What a pity! You’ll be needing some time to recuperate, unless you make a miracle recovery by tomorrow morning.’

The two relish in the joke, in their little secret. Cortex wouldn’t like them having such an unprofessional relationship; he barely even tolerates a _professional_ one. Tropy smirks to himself. Cortex oughtn’t be so grabby. N Gin is just too adorable to keep to himself. There’s an exciting little edge to it, too, the idea that Cortex can have N Gin’s inventions and advice and ideas but he’ll never have _him,_ he’ll never have the taste of ozone on his lips, he’ll never have the scent of rocket fuel in his hair, he’ll never have the squeezing hugs and shaking hands and heated blush and the way that his eyes light up, he’ll never have the noises, the quirky, adorable noises that he makes.

‘Let’s get you to bed, _patient,’_ Tropy says, straightening up, scooping Gin up into his arms. ‘My, my. You’re so sick, you can’t even walk.’

‘Nooo, Doctor Tropy, you’d better carry me to my bed, hehe!’

He _can_ walk after an orgasm; the pampering just goes to his head and he can turn into a right demanding little princess. If they weren’t in a broom closet and under such constraints, he’d probably be ordering Tropy about, _deeper, faster, harder, more._ It does him good to be able to boss someone about, sometimes, but other times he just likes to put his pleasure into someone else’s hands and melt.

The corridor is empty, thank goodness. It’d look weird, a still-red faced N Gin being carried by Tropy emerging from a broom closet. People would ask questions. Cortex would get pissy. Gin does fear that, a little, but Tropy doesn’t, and so Gin fears it less. They chat softly, their little jokes, their little game, tittering as Tropy briskly trots down the hallway, down the stairs, through the corridors, past draughty windows flickering with rain, to Gin’s quarters, small and cramped and messy, and he places him in bed, softly, as if he’s laying down a rose or a wounded animal.

‘You’ll sleep well, alright?’ he says, almost an order. _Sleep well, or else._

‘Sleep off the-’ He grins, pulling his hands out from under the sheets to make air quotes, ‘ _Cold.’_

Tropy chuckles, and begins to turn away, before pausing. The light of the lamp catches the silver hairs on his temples. A look crosses his face, a little pensive, a little serious, mostly serious.

‘N Gin?’

‘Hm?’ He’s hazy, already drifting off into dreamland.

‘I…’ It’s a little hard for him to say. He need to sound sincere, he wants to sound sincere. ‘I love you, alright? You- you do know that?’

Gin smiles, pleasant, like a cat sunning itself, eyes shut. ‘Of course, you big blue dummy, you left a meeting to jerk me off in a broom closet, if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.’

His joke doesn’t really go down well with Tropy, because he lingers in the doorway, illuminated by torches from behind. He doesn’t entirely want to protest, but he _has_ to say it again, more firmly, brows knitting.

‘I _love_ you.’

Gin looks up, opens one eye. He pauses, considering the look of total sincerity on Tropy’s face. What’s up with him? He’s trying to make sure he _knows._ It’s not just the illicit rush of secret sex and broom-closet capers. He _loves_ him. Outside the broom closet. Beyond the noises. All parts, all pieces, all contexts, love, love, love. And it’s out of place, because a tender moment generally comes during a date or after a kiss and not after _that,_ but Tropy has to make sure he _knows._

He’s a pedant. Everything has to be perfect. He won’t risk anything else.

‘I love you too,’ says Gin, sweetly, before burrowing into his bedsheets and saying in a joking tone, ‘But it’s _bedtime._ Go be sappy in your own room, lover-boy.’

Tropy laughs, briefly, once. ‘Alright. Sweet dreams, my little warhead.’

‘Mmm, goodnight…’

He backs out and closes the door gently, hears Gin snuff the lamp, and waits for a while, just outside. He hears the gentle titter of snoring, sleepy murmurs as he mutters in his dreams, long sighs and hitching gasps, a restless rest.

He loves, them, the little noises he makes. All of them.


	2. The Tables Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hey," I hear you cry, "why don't you write another chapter for Clock Stopper, or If At First You Don't Succeed, or another Timebomb fanfic, or something else, that's good and that people've asked for?" Well, instead of answering, I'd like to present to you this: a second chapter to the one timebomb fuck-fic. You're welcome, right? Anyway, enjoy.

‘ _Bastard,’_ Gin says between giggles. ‘I’m still not forgiving you.’

‘Oh, so what if Cortex thinks you’re contagious?’ Tropy laughs, hands still on Gin’s hips. ‘He won’t touch you with a bargepole for the next week. At least _you_ won’t have to talk to him…’

Gin cackles, snorting, which turns into another giggle when Tropy nuzzles his neck with that strong Greek nose of his between kisses. The clocks on the wall click and hum like a symphony of insects on a balmy evening, a ticking white noise as N. Tropy’s cold lips leave quick, nipping, ticklish kisses on his darling’s neck. He chuckles, letting one linger as Gin pushes at him gently, giving a titter that turns into a needy whine.

‘You don’t have anything, ehe, scheduled for this afternoon, do you?’ Gin asks, his twitching hands fumbling to unbutton the collar of Tropy’s labcoat. His voice is breathy, his breaths are quick, he’s shaking a little, he’s making the room humid.

‘I can pencil you in,’ Tropy replies, softly but gruffly, in that voice that rumbles through N Gin, fills him with shivers, a distant earthquake, deep and hoarse.

The kisses get longer. Behind his eyelids, N Gin sees colour, exploding out like a timelapse or a screensaver, he hears his own flustered beeping in his ears, he can’t help it, he hears Tropy chuckle at the sounds. Sometimes kissing him is _awkward,_ and he knows it. Not because of the sounds, Tropy likes them, it’s things like his height, and how he tilts with the missile’s weight, and how excitement may cause a migraine to set in, and how coming together too passionately usually ends up with a clash of teeth due to his terrible underbite…

Self-consciousness bubbles up in him but is quickly quelled when he feels the palm of Tropy’s hand ever-so-gently press at him, between his thighs, soft enough to tease, hard enough to make him gasp and chirp, a digital hiccup. Tropy snickers. Bastard. Gin can’t feel bad about himself. Doubt sometimes flares up, but only sometimes, and he feels like this must be some kind of sick joke, why would someone so _tall_ and _handsome_ and _clever_ and _blue_ love him-?

But he’s started kicking that mindset. Situations like this help. There’s something about how Tropy works. He’s picky, he’s finicky. He won’t work on something if it doesn’t interest him; he won’t invest time in something if he’s not passionate about it. He’ll reject Cortex to his face. He’ll turn down a dinner invitation with no excuse other than _I don’t feel like it._ He’s bold and he knows what he wants, he _does_ what he wants, and he’s _doing_ N Gin. If he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t. N Gin feels comfort in this.

One of his quaking hands reaches down as Tropy nips at his earlobe, he undoes the bottom buttons of the coat and then his pants. Tropy laughs softly.

‘You’re eager today,’ he says, audibly not complaining, ‘Perhaps you want to pay me back for our previous… escapade?’

Gin doesn’t say anything, only lets out a single breathless, gasping laugh, snaking his hand into Tropy’s boxers, _of course there’s little clocks on them,_ and _that’s_ certainly not as cold as the rest of him; he’s grinding his hips a little, his composure falters for a second in a soft moan, it’s nothing like N Gin’s little beeps and blips and stammers and it makes a rush of power go through him like a shot, like a drug, straight to his head.

‘You’re sensitive,’ N Gin says, partially matter-of-factly, partially teasingly. He picks the word apart into syllables. It’s something N Tropy should never be. Cold and stoic and chaotic and powerful, never sensitive, always the type to keep a stiff upper lip and stay collected, never the type to fall apart into whimpers at a single touch. His fly unbuttons with a near-soundless click. His knees go weak for a fraction of a second.

A colour that should probably be red has risen to N Tropy’s cheeks. His eyes flutter shut, his hands tighten slightly around Gin’s hips, he tries to keep his power and retaliates with his own smooth hands but N Gin already has an advantage – he just _loves_ seeing the stronger man come apart. The power sends him into a frenzied, blissful high, every time.

Tropy’s about to say something, Gin can feel his hot breaths on his ear, when the least sexy sound in the universe interrupts their festivities, accompanied by a series of short, rapid knocks; it’s Cortex’s voice, and Tropy hisses under his breath, squeezing Gin as his hands instinctually tighten in frustration, hearing a squeak, like a chew toy.

‘Oh, _Nefarious!’_ Cortex calls from the other side of the door in a sickly sing-song voice. ‘It’s time for our little _chat!’_

‘ _What the fuck?’_ Gin whispers, panicking, Cortex’s very presence enough to send shocks of worry through his mind, ‘You _said_ you didn’t have anything scheduled!’

‘I said I’d pencil you in,’ hisses Tropy, gold eyes flickering between Gin and the door anxiously. After a moment of desperately trying to think of a plan he just spits out the word ‘ _Hide.’_

‘What?’ Gin shakes his head. The panic is making a dull soreness swell behind his eyes, he massages his temples with shaky hands. ‘Where?!’

‘Dr. Tropy, are you in?’ comes Cortex’s voice, again, but Gin can barely hear it over his own rushing head; ‘You’re not doing something _unsavoury_ in there, are you?’

‘Just one second, Dr. Cortex!’ calls Tropy back, offering an awkward, clunky laugh, before waving his hands with gritted teeth, as if willing an idea into existence; his eyes dart around, his high, defined brow knits together, and then his eyes light up. ‘Get under the desk.’

‘What?’

‘No time. Quick. Quick!’ Lifting Gin off the desk, he hurries him under, straightens his own hair, bundles the papers and clocks into order on the desk and takes a seat. No time to button up his pants. Cortex won’t see that. Don’t bother. He pulls the seat in and takes a deep breath. ‘Come in!’

Gin hears the door open, then a pause before it shuts, the sound of Cortex apprehensively surveying the room. It’s surprisingly roomy under the desk, but Gin guesses it has to be; Tropy has long legs, after all, and a tall chair, and good posture; he wouldn’t tolerate a desk that required him to stoop or bend. Gin only has to kneel; it even happily accommodates his missile. He clasps a hand over his mouth to stay quiet. The light down there is a little dim but he can spot a flash of white – Tropy didn’t have time to button up his fly…

‘It’s terribly humid in here,’ says Cortex; Tropy can’t tell if he’s suspicious or not. ‘You look flushed. Why don’t you open a window? Must be _sweltering.’_

_Don’t get up. He’ll notice your hard-on._ ‘I’m fine, it’s fine, I just ran my- humidifier. Too long.’

Cortex’s eyes scan the desk. He doesn’t see a humidifier. A hum of apprehension buzzes from him, like the sound of a lie detector going off, unsure and maybe faulty.

‘You wanted to discuss the use of time travel technology in our plans,’ Cortex says, cranking the chair up as high as it will go, before crossing his legs and tenting his fingers. ‘Would you care to elaborate on that?’

Tropy sneers. God, he hates this lime-green fucker’s guts. ‘Yes, Doctor Cortex, I believe that in _your_ past endeavours, the technology I’ve studied has been underutilised, and that capitalising on this opportunity could maximise the- _!’_

Just as he’s going full jargon, he’s cut off by a sound. A choked squeak, flustered and shocked; his face goes scarlet and his body tenses up, back arching. Cortex is almost taken aback. After a pause that’s just a little too long to be natural, Tropy grabs a tissue from the box on the table and sneezes theatrically into it, scrunching it up and tossing it into the bin with a precise flick of his wrist.

Cortex is visibly suspicious now. He narrows his eyes and seems to be thinking, scanning Tropy’s face, a cool, calm mask quivering with some foreign emotion, an embarrassment, a nervousness, like a wavering line on a polygraph. After a moment, he relaxes.

‘Go on. Tell me more about how you think you’re better at my job than I am.’

Tropy visibly cringes, but he says nothing on the topic. Both he and Cortex know that neither man is an enormous fan of the other, it’s better to just ignore the comment than try and make a witty comeback, he’s just being petty.

‘Yes. Well, I-’ He stammers suddenly, seemingly lurching in his seat, as if he’s felt a sudden shiver or a prickle on the back of his neck. ‘I believe that with the technology I’ve perfected, previous strategies c- could be-!’ His voice cuts off and he hisses slightly, gulping hard, as if a sour taste has just kicked in in his mouth. ‘Of- of use. To us. Our research, I mean.’

Cortex’s eyes narrow. He purses his lips momentarily, slowly runs a hand through his beard, watches Tropy’s face. Tropy has a grin on his face, a ridiculous, forced, ‘Of course I’m okay!’ smile, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, as if he’s sitting on pins and trying not to let it show. His eye twitches, his fingers spasm, his whole face _quivers_ once, as if he’s been videotaped and the film is faulty, flickering.

‘You’re hiding something,’ Cortex says. ‘Something’s going on with you.’

‘What? N-!’ His voice hitches. ‘No! No, no, no, no, I assure you, everything is- ship shape and in working order, yes, yes.’

He laughs. Cortex sneers. He’s not buying it.

‘What’s your game?’ he says slowly, moving to get out of his seat. He starts to get up. Tropy panics, waving him down-

‘No! Doctor Cortex, I- I-!’ He pants, curses under his breath, tries to collect himself. He’s awfully flustered. ‘I- I- I admit, I was trying to hide something, I admit it, yes, all this time, I’m sorry.’

Cortex raises an eyebrow, curious. ‘What are you hiding?’

Tropy fumbles for an excuse. He sees Gin give him a ‘What the fuck? Think of something!’ gesture from under the table and frowns, trying not to react to his presence, lest it become too obvious.

‘I- was- uh- wrapping a- present for you.’

Oh, he likes that. His eyes glint. ‘A present? Oooh, for me?’

Relief washes over Tropy. Pride swells in his chest as he sees Cortex take the bait. ‘Yes, oh, I apologise, we- Doctors Brio, Gin and I- wanted to- _ah-_ treat you! Because you’ve been just such a _good doctor.’_

Stroke his ego and you’ve got him in the palm of your hand. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’ Cortex croons. ‘Go on, what did you get?’

‘Oh! Now, I couldn’t tell you that! It has to be a surprise!’ Tropy needs him out of the room. Just for a second. He and Gin need a quick _talk._ ‘Um- but I- you see, I- stuffed it into my- desk drawer when you came in. That’s not a very, ah, ceremonious hiding place. You’d find it instantly, and that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?’

Cortex nods. He doesn’t refute the insinuation that he’d go snooping in Tropy’s belongings.

‘So if you’d- step out for, _ah,_ a moment, and I’ll put it somewhere more _secret…’_

He falls for it instantly. Nodding, giddy and full of ego, Cortex hops out of his seat and hurries out of the room. ‘Call when it’s safe for me to come back in!’

‘I will!’ Tropy laughs, shakily, and the second Cortex shuts the door, he kicks away from the desk, folding his arms and looking at Gin somewhat sternly.

Gin stretches slightly, tilts his head to either side. ‘What?’

‘I’m very upset with you.’ He’s hissing through his teeth, face still scarlet.

‘Ohh, why?’ Gin shuffles out slightly from under the desk, resting his elbows on Tropy’s knees, looking up at him all _smug._ ‘What’s the problem, _Doctor Tropy,_ was I interrupting your meeting?’

‘Oh, you smarmy little bastard,’ Tropy murmurs, a smirk breaking across his face, ‘If Cortex finds you, he’s going to go _spare.’_

‘I could _stop,’_ Gin sneers, ‘If you can’t hold it together…’

‘ _Darling,’_ says Tropy, scoffing at the challenge, ‘Get under the desk. I’ll call him in here.’

Gin chuckles reedily, ‘If you _insist…’_

Cortex taps his foot outside. A gift? What could if be? His mind is racing. He’s like a kid being promised candy if he’s good. God, he loves getting gifts, and he _deserves_ it, and he just starts thinking _what if he only said that as a diversion_ when he hears Tropy call out, ‘Come in, Doctor Cortex!’

He walks back in and Tropy has a smirk on his face, as if he’s just agreed to a bet he’s pretty sure he’s going to win. Hopping into the chair, he claps his hands together, places his elbows on the table, and leans in.

‘Now, tell me, Doctor Tropy, about your plan.’

‘Yes. I-’ He looks like he’s about to keep his cool when he suddenly shakes, eyes widening. Oh, he’s _good,_ he thinks, Gin’s ready to fight dirty. ‘I believe that simply using time twister technology to create easy paths to crystals our _adversaries_ can use _against_ us is a gross underutilisation of the technology, and that alternatively we can- uh- hah- _excuse_ me, I just- have- uh- a little bit of a cold-!’

‘Oh, _god,_ not you too.’ Cortex rolls his eyes. One day that excuse isn’t going to work anymore but that day isn’t today. ‘Everyone’s getting sick, there must be a bug going around. You probably caught it off _N Gin.’_

He almost sounds disgusted having his name in his mouth. Tropy reaches a hand under the desk briefly, as if he’s brushing a fleck of dust from the thigh of his trousers, but he quickly runs a hand through Gin’s hair, as if to comfort him. _Don’t listen to him, he’s just a prick,_ he says wordlessly, and Gin’s heart flutters, he has to stop himself from giggling, there’s nobody he’d rather be sucking the dick of under the desk in presence of his boss.

‘Hm, yes, anyway, my plan is that-’ _Oh god, just like that-_ ‘We can use time travel technology to analyse both our strongest methods of operation and-’ _Wait, fuck, that’s not fair-!_ ‘And- uh- our- our- enemies’ weakest points- and with this knowledge, orchestrate an optimised scenario where-’ _It’s too much-_ ‘Where we’re operating at our strongest, and they at their weakest, so- so to speak-’

‘Doctor Tropy, is that steam coming out from under your desk?’

Tropy goes to say something, he opens his mouth to make an excuse about his humidifier, when Gin just- _does_ something, he doesn’t _see_ it!- he just- _does something,_ under the desk, pulls out his _dirtiest_ tricks and for a second time stands still and then-

He _moans._

There’s a long, very uncomfortable silence. Tropy’s face goes scarlet. Sweat drips from his forehead. There’s really no way he can cover that up as a cough or sneeze, or even a groan of pain, because he covers his mouth, and it was just so high-pitched and undignified and blissful; Gin almost starts laughing. It’s such a silly fucking noise, he almost loses it on the spot, but he knows Cortex is at maximum suspicion.

After a minute, Cortex says, ‘What was that sound?’

Tropy resents the fact that his moans don’t turn into computerised beeps like Gin’s. That’d be so much easier to pass off as something that’s _not a moan._ After a solid second, the only thing he can think to say is a huffy, ‘It’s none of your business what that noise was. Anyway…’

And Cortex _buys it._

Tropy keeps bullshitting, riding the high of Cortex just silently accepting it. He can’t believe it, and he can hardly hear what he’s saying, throwing out time-travel jargon as his mind buzzes with the shock that he _moaned_ in front of Doctor Neo Cortex and just _got away with it._ It’s a _high._ He doesn’t know if it’s because Cortex was intimidated or if Cortex just didn’t want to debate something so unsavoury but he just _took_ it.

Cortex doesn’t even talk for the rest of the meeting, other than murmurs of agreement and a brief ‘I’ll think about it’ at the end. Maybe he’s rattled, maybe he’s disgusted, but he doesn’t bring it up, comment on it, or say much of anything until he leaves to his lab with Tropy’s plans to mull over, shutting the door behind him silently, Tropy smiling like a pleasant schoolchild behind his desk.

The second Cortex leaves, Tropy collapses in his seat, once again kicking away from the desk, holding his hands over his face.

‘Oh my gooood, you are in _trouble,_ little man,’ he groans as Gin emerges from under the desk, a big stupid smile on his features, ‘Wipe that grin off your face. You humiliated me in front of Doctor Cortex. It’s not funny.’

‘No, it’s not funny, I know.’ But Gin can’t help grinning even wider, snorting with laughter; ‘But the _sounds_ you were making, now _that’s_ funny!’

Tropy goes red again, but Gin’s laugh is infectious, a high-pitched wheezing giggle that just makes him want to chuckle along. He ruffles Gin’s ginger hair.

‘Evil little man,’ he says, leaning back in his chair, ‘God, now we have to get Cortex a gift...’

Gin’s barely listening. Tropy’s still hard. There’s something really weird about his dick. Like, he’s _looking_ at it, and it’s just, like, it’s _blue._ The same rich, royal blue as his skin, except for a purple blush towards his tip, and a powder-blue underside, it’s actually quite aesthetically pleasing, like one of those expensive custom-made sex toys you can buy from specialist shops on the internet, not that Gin spends a lot of _time_ over there. What’s more is Tropy’s got a tattoo on his hip, just visible from under his shirt, of an hourglass in front of a colourless rose. Gin brushes his thumb over it. He took his gloves off a while ago, he didn’t want them getting sticky, and the _squeak_ of rubber crinkling might’ve alerted Cortex.

Tropy jumps, offering a tiny squeak. That’s another thing Gin finds adorable about him. Give him time to prepare and collect himself, and he’ll be the picture of calm composure, all low hums and cool baritone, but if you catch him off guard, he _squeaks._ It’s a soft, flustered _eek!_ that makes Gin giggle every time, and he makes it whenever someone unexpectedly brushes against something _sensitive._

It’s _awkward_ trying to blow him. Anyone, really, not Nefarious specifically, although Nef is the only person he’s generally tried to blow. It’s the underbite, and how far his teeth jut out, and how he can’t open his jaw that far, and how he has to crane his neck slightly to avoid having the exhaust of his missile positioned directly under Tropy’s nose. He doesn’t want a cloud of smoke shot straight up his lover’s nose, that’d kill the mood.

He can adapt, though, he has a great mind. He sees a problem and he finds a solution. And he’s always been willing to get dirty, take a more hands-on approach, even if his hands aren’t as smooth and soft as Tropy’s. They’re covered in the rough callouses of burns and scars, they’re _textured,_ and Tropy’s head lolls back in bliss, letting out a long, sighing moan.

_‘Fuck,’_ he groans, breathing hard, melting into the seat, as if he’s going to just dissolve into a gooey blue mess, as if he’ll come undone under those small, nimble, _rough_ hands, like moon sand, completely losing his structural integrity at a touch, crumbling. ‘You enjoy doing this to me too much…’

Gin only giggles, it’s a habit, he can’t stop himself. He has to admit, he _does_ enjoy it; not only does he adore making Tropy happy, making him proud, he also relishes in the power. Nobody else will see the Time Master, Doctor Nefarious Tropy, the incredible, powerful man, this _vulnerable._ Nobody will be able to make him make these sounds – squeaks, moans, gasps, sighs – nobody else will see him squirm like this. And even that has two sides to it: on one hand, he _loves_ having this power, it rushes to his head, it turns him into a right tyrant, but the fact that Nefarious trusts him in this way-

Nef moans. Hitching, desperate, soft. He’s close, very close. He sees no point in calling it out. It would probably only tempt Gin to stop, just to be an ass. Anyway, Gin can tell, in the way his thigh twitches, the way he tenses, the shivers and spasms and the tonal shift in his moans. His desire to please Tropy and be a _good_ boyfriend overwhelms his desire to be a little shit and tell Tropy to hold it together for another five minutes.

His eyes roll back. His mouth falls open. A strangled, squealing, blissful moan escapes and he–

‘Oh, and Dr Tropy, I almost forgot-‘

The door swings open but he can’t stop himself. Cortex and Tropy lock eyes for a split second and Tropy notes this down in his mental list of the weirdest orgasms he’s ever had, but maybe not the _worst,_ just one of the most _conflicting_. Because he loves Gin and cherishes him and sharing this intimate moment is _very_ special but also there's _Cortex_ , and out of all of his sexual fantasies a solid _none_ of them involve Cortex. Gin realises something’s wrong when one of Tropy’s hands comes down hard on the top of his head, trying to push him back under the desk, stammering between high-pitched gasps, protesting, telling Cortex to get out, get _out,_ why didn’t he _knock,_ just close the door, get _out_!

Hurriedly backing out, Cortex slams the door behind him. There’s a long, very tense silence. After ten seconds, they hear Cortex’s footsteps shakily leave down the corridor. Tropy wants to cry. Gin feels like he’s been proven wrong in the worst way. Oh god, and what a person to catch them in the act-!

After a moment, Gin says, ‘Tissue, please.’

Tropy passes him a fistful of tissues to wipe his face clean with. Since Tropy’s orgasm and Tropy’s wild panic to stop Cortex from coming in were practically simultaneous, there’s an awful mess, and _someone’s_ going to have to clean the underside of the desk. After he cleans his face, Gin gets up, knees clicking uncomfortably as he stands straight. He cracks his neck. Tropy has leaned forwards and is holding his head in his hands.

‘We are going to have to get him _such_ a good gift,’ he says mournfully, ‘Oh my god, N Gin, we’re not going to hear the end of it. He’s going to be going on about this for _years.’_

‘What if he tries to stop us from seeing each other?’ Gin murmurs, a little anxiously as he combs his hands through his hair. ‘He’s going to stop us from working together…’

Tropy scoffs. ‘Like hell he is. That prick can pry you from my cold, dead hands.’ He gives a grunt, tucking himself back into his pants, straightening himself up with a little awkwardness. Seeing him just immediately tidy himself up like that is like seeing someone bite directly into an ice cream. He shakes off the blowjob as if it were nothing. Cortex’s interruption may have helped that, but Gin can’t help taking it as a challenge.

Snorting with laughter, Gin sighs, content, but then realises something. He’s going to have to walk down that corridor to get back to his room, and if he sees Cortex, he feels like he’ll just _die…_

Seeming to notice, Tropy rests a hand on his shoulder, pulls him closer, as if to inspect him. ‘You look like you need a bath. Ugh, there's some in your hair…’

‘And whose fault is that, now?’

‘Don’t make a fuss. Come on, let’s go clean you up.’ He takes Gin’s hand, gets out of his chair, uses his vantage point to inspect Gin again; ‘Ugh, you _do_ need a bath. There’s _soot_ in there, too. When was the last time you washed your hair?’

Gin turns red. It’s embarrassing, he just keeps forgetting. ‘I’ve been busy,’ he mutters, avoiding the question. Tropy cringes.

‘Well, it’s high time someone cleaned you up. Don’t dawdle, now!’ He leads Gin by the hand out of the door, peering left and right as if to scope for Cortex, satisfied when he doesn’t see him. ‘We’ll use my bath. It’s larger.’

‘And then we can think of a _present_ for- ehe- _Doctor Cortex.’_

A shudder goes through Tropy and he sneers. ‘In time, darling. I can’t imagine why, but I feel he might’ve caught on to the fact that that promise wasn’t _entirely_ genuine.’

‘Hn? How come?’

Tropy has to stop walking and look down at Gin for a good second. Gin stares up, seemingly confused, before he finally gets it.

‘Oh, _yes,_ I see.’ He nods silently. Maybe Cortex _did_ catch on to the fact that the promise of gifts was false. And maybe Cortex _will_ demand an explanation for today’s escapade. But he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. ‘So we don’t have to buy him a gift?’

Cackling, Tropy swings his arm, and Gin feels a little rush of joy go through him. It’s playful, it’s silly, it’s camaraderie; he can hardly imagine Tropy helping him wash his hair but it’ll be an actuality within minutes, and a tiny shiver of glee shoots up his spine when he imagines the intimacy of Tropy’s bathroom, using the same body wash as him, sharing the same _scent._

‘We probably should get him a gift. An apology, you know. _Dear Doctor Cortex, awfully sorry that you don’t know how to knock…’_

Both men laugh. Gin watches the freckled blue face light up with mirth. His heart throbs.

Ok, maybe he’s forgiven him.


End file.
